


I Can't

by chupacabras



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chupacabras/pseuds/chupacabras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Merle’s voice was the stumbling footprints in the sand on a beach then Rick’s words were the waves that came and washed them out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't

When something actually got to him, Daryl was more than capable of absolutely seething. It started slow, like a rumble of thunder, and would build until there was just noise. Noise in his head. Things he needed to do. Things he should have already done. Mistakes. The noise caused by his relationships with others. Their wants. Their needs. Words they said. Words they didn’t say but were written all over their damn faces. The lines that were invisible but not to be crossed. It was something he could deal with on most days— but others? Well. Sometimes the Dixon lifestyle snuck up on him. Sometimes his brother’s voice replaced his own in his head.

_Don’ got time for this, baby brother._

_Only gonna hurt you._

_They don’ understand you. Not fer a second. They ne’er will. Not like me._

Daryl knew these words were a sickness in his mind, that is brother was gone. That Merle was a wound that he kept picking at. That he needed to just let heal. But whenever he became angry— really angry— he just couldn’t stop the flooded thoughts as they came. He didn’t know anything else; Merle was always right. He hadn’t steered Daryl wrong, not once. Merle was rough and rude but he was safe. Nothing else was safe like he was. 

With him gone, Daryl hadn’t felt safe for a long time. Not since he had screamed in denial at the top of that building. But now, here. With wine warming his stomach (suggested, kindly), a blanket warming the rest of him (offered, but with no room for it to be turned down), and Rick’s voice smoothing over the cracks left by Merle— that long-lost feeling was creeping into his veins again. It was cold, even in this house they were stuffed away in. It was temporary, but Daryl was already itching to leave. The youngest Dixon seemed to want to run away from the weather itself. He had spent the day pacing once they had settled in, hackles raised and voice barking out at anybody who so much as looked at him wrong. He wanted out. He didn’t want to be inside of a stuffy house shivering. He wanted to at least be making himself useful— to be outside and in his element. To hunt. To track. To flick that switch in his mind that shut down all other thoughts for the sake of instinct. Eventually he stuffed himself into one of the side rooms and tried passing the time by putting together new arrows. Ten or so minutes into that and he gave up, and sometime later Rick had knock-knocked lightly on his door with his middle knuckle in that now too familiar way. 

The ex-cop didn’t ask Daryl what had him so tense, only gave the blanket and wine in some kind of offering before settling on the edge of the bed. Rick was smart; he waited until Daryl had a few swallows of wine before he spoke again. Started with how he’d noticed the other was on edge the past couple of days— his tone so understanding. 

“You’re probably feeling pretty trapped by now. I know that you don’t like being tied down to one place for long. I’ve asked you not to hunt and you’ve stayed with the group and kept us safe and I… I really appreciate you doin’ that. I know its hard.”  For a while Daryl stared stubbornly at the faded wallpaper of the room, but Rick could tell by the way his shoulders tense and his jaw tightened that he was listening. He was given a shrug and then Daryl spoke up.

“Can’t be goin’ off on m’own when’ts this cold and we’re so short on ammo. Said so yerself. S’too dangerous. This group can’t ‘ford t’lose anyone else…” Daryl’s voice trailed and there was something unspoken between them— something Rick was getting better and better at picking up on. Daryl didn’t see himself as actually important. As someone who would be missed if he left. He was opposite front, the unusual cold that swept in and mixed with the rest and caused a storm in the right conditions. He was the type of person that people warned one another about. A Dixon. A redneck. 

_You’ll never fit in with these folks, baby brother._

“No.”  If Merle’s voice was the stumbling footprints in the sand on a beach then Rick’s words were the waves that came and washed them out. It was one word but it spoke volumes. “We can’t.” The more the ex-cop spoke, the more metaphorical waves were able to come in. Daryl really wasn’t sure… what it meant. To feel the calm wash over. To let this man’s words reassure him. “ _ **I**_  can’t.” 

When Rick’s eyes locked with his, Daryl mentally noted that they seemed impossibly bright. Bright with hope. Bright with trust. Bright with determination. Bright with worry. With promise. With a million things— most of which Daryl was honestly too wary to label. But he couldn’t look away— wouldn’t look away.  A silence fell between them again while they stared and tried to understand what expressions they were exchanging. What they really meant. 

A sudden understanding and a reluctant acceptance— and Daryl nods. That hope, trust, and determination? It was contagious.

“You won’t.”


End file.
